


before and after

by isonlyme



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Deleted Scenes, Drinking, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Homophobia, How it should have went, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Las Vegas Era (The Goldfinch), M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Post-Canon Fix-It, Shyness, Slow Burn, Soft Theo, Young Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky, boreo, guys this is hella long im so sorry, im tryin here, its not that good dont kill meeee, not that much of a burn, so much makeup and no ones texting me back, when is he not soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 17,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28798209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isonlyme/pseuds/isonlyme
Summary: Boris Pavlikovsky is a junior, when he gets into a car accident with Kotku and his memory is wiped. Alternately, sophomore Theodore Decker has been watching Boris from afar ever since he left New York, nursing his crush on him regardless of how he bullies Theo. But when Boris's memory is gone, there are only a few things he remembers: and one of them is Theo.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky, boreo - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue, Theo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tangerine_sugarhoneysweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerine_sugarhoneysweet/gifts).



> ((This is my first Goldfinch fanfiction so go easy on me. I decided to let the plot go somewhat along with the book's narrative, adding little things and perspectives I always wanted to know about in the novel itself! ehehe))
> 
> ((I attempted to write this with respect to Donna's style so bear with me because it is semicolon, prose, parentheses, and em-dash galore))

I didn’t see it coming. Nothing could have stopped the panic and bewilderment bubbling up inside as I watched the roles being cast wrong; I was supposed to be the one in his arms, (his downturned, sensuous eyebrows) with that distinguished smirk of his ever so close. But instead I was stuck in the wings; fluttering, helpless. Warm breeze, curtains billow. Granted, I could have pushed Kotku away—was that an apparent look of distress on Boris’s face as she leaned in? She wrapped her arms around his torso. The tempo quivers. _Fuck him, fuck everybody._

I turned away, away from the playground (our meeting place, rendezvous point) and into the banal oblivion that awaited me at home. _The painting._ The recollection made my eyes water, tiny pinpricks of light buzzing around my vision. The tears bubbled over and spilled below my specs, gleaming streaks of silver in the evening. A trash bag floats by unattended, a pale ghost.

Because somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew that his eyes would be opened and see that I was not meant for him: only a placeholder for his old life. Walking faster now, seeing this was a mistake. A mistake. ( _“You’re stuck with me eh, Potter? Where else do I have to go?”_ Boris’s voice echoey in the kitchen). _Stop it stop it._

We were supposed to meet here. I was going to tell Boris. But someone else beat me to him.

“Theo, wait!” The adorable cadence of his voice, a soft _th_ , the sharp end of wa _it_. (“Fyodor!”) Memorized. Unmistakable. His voice rising above the noise in my head. I knew I was dreaming but it felt like a premonition more than a fantasy. “You’re supposed to be dead.” I forget everything and break into a run, to lose Boris, whatever was left of Kotku, and run towards the only thing—before him—left to hide; my last secret. The lonely little bird. But before I stepped onto the grainy driveway of my house—ignoring the fact that no lights were on, no reason to go inside—I woke up.


	2. boris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((i'm still new to all this so I apologize if my formatting is a little wonky))

_ “He’s waking up. Oh God, look at his face.” _

_ "Shut up Amber! Not helping!” _

There were voices all around me, on top of the persistent beeping of a monitor. Everything inside ached and twinged with the slightest pain—a lot less thanks to the drugs. 

_ “Boris? Can you hear me?” _

_ “Of course he can hear us—”  _ the male voice said, annoyed. 

_ "Shhh!” _

I opened my eyes slowly, seeing bright lights above my lashes and foreign faces crowding the hospital room. Their expressions were a mixture of relief and horror; a post-accident cocktail. 

“Ah,  _ gavno. _ What’s going on?” My voice felt raw and guttural, like someone had forced gravel down my throat. 

The girl, a not very pretty blonde with cropped hair stared, inquisitive.

“The doctor will come back in a few minutes.” She took a step closer, looking me in the eyes; thoroughly creeping me out. “You were in a car accident, Boris. And Kotku...” She turned away to stifle a sob. 

The name strung a bell in my mind, but there was no recollection. “Kotku?” The words felt novel on my tongue, like a new language. 

She was angry now. “What, you don’t wanna know your girlfriend is  _ dead?”  _ The girl was confused by my response, I could see, but continued to stare as though by some slight chance I might just smile ( _ “Only joking! Ha!”)  _ and act as though I recognized them all. 

“Who is Kotku? And who are you two?” I tried to sit up—groaning muscles and the heart monitor going wild—and pointed an accusatory finger at them both. She was baffled. 

The boy, seeming a few years older, with a shaved head spoke up. “I-It’s Connor. And Amber?” He gestured to the blonde. 

“Hey man, It’s okay. Calm _down_ ,” Connor said while wrapping an arm around an unresponsive Amber. 

“He’s forgotten us..” She mumbled with a teary whine. 

“Forgotten who? How the fuck am I supposed to know? Where is this doctor?” The pounding in my head increased to the point where I had to lie back down: fuming, embarrassed. 

“I’ll get him.” Connor says this more to the girl than me, and disappears through the double doors. More beeping and frail-sounding coughs from outside. 

“You hit your head..Really hard, Boris. But it only figures, we were all being stupid last night..Too much to drink..” She started going off, but I didn’t have time to listen because in the empty cavern of my fucked-up brain were images; scenes flickering rapidly like a photo reel. My father, pale and gangly. Screaming, aggressive drunk. A few memories of childhood—drinking, black eyes, cold winter months, _ McLeod’s Daughters _ reruns—but then something shifted. (” _ Boris? Are you okay?” _ Amber in her annoying high-pitched tone). Although I could recall most of my younger years, nothing about my current situation was familiar. All but one singular thing: a boy. Cerulean Oxford sweater, the colors of heaven and sky, him glancing around himself furtively—an anxious, jittery exhalation—before straightening his horn-rimmed glasses. Hot autumn wind ruffling his dark blonde hair, a self conscious swipe to move it out of his face. Beat up high school cafeteria seats. 

His association was blank. I recognized his face but not  _ who _ he was. 

_ Theodore Decker.  _ His name hit me like the blistering desert air, quick as a whip. 

It was odd; the vision was so real, so distinct and vivid in my mind that I clung to the pieces of it with desperation. A withering old man grasping the fresh dimpled hand of a grandchild he once knew but could not identify. Theo’s eyes were a deep shade of russet, fixed on a point within the memory that I could not fill in the blank for. 

_ “He’s gone into some kind of trance? Is he okay? What’s happening to him? He won’t remember who we are!”  _ Amber babbled on. 

I looked back up at their concerned faces—it didn’t matter, who were these people? All I could know was that boy. I remembered him for a reason. But Connor was back, and the doctor—a portly gentleman with thinning hair combed to the side—studied my files. 

“Can you tell me your name?” He asked me. 

“Boris. Well,  _ Borys Volodymyrovych Pavlikovsky.” _ I said, deciding that giving them my full name was assurance enough. The man nodded and asked me a few more questions (“What street do you live on?” “What is the capital of Nevada?” “How old are you?”) with which I answered—except for the dumb history shit. My mind flickered back, instinctively, to the boy with a pang of yearning. Why could I only remember  _ him _ ?

“And do you know the name of your,” the doctor flipped over a page to inquire, “Civics teacher? Or maybe English?” 

“No.” I said, after a startled beat. 

“Come on, Boris, we all know you remember her! Remember Thoreau?” Connor joked. 

“I already told you! I do not know who this is you are talking about!” Their pleasant, easygoing manner aggravated me to the point where I wouldn't mind getting off this damned bed and slap some sense into him. Did they not believe me? I touched my forehead, pulling back my lank hair to discover a thick bandage was wrapped there, keeping in the play-dough mess that was my brain. 

Screeching tires, a female scream. 

“Well, we did some brain scans to ensure that nothing was extensively damaged. However, Boris, I think you’re suffering from selective amnesia.” 

_ “Selective amnesia?”  _ I said slowly, tasting the word. But I knew these stupid doctors wouldn’t be able to decipher past my accent. 

“It’s a condition where only certain parts of your memory are impaired or even forgotten entirely. Things like relationships, people you knew, maybe even a talent you were once able to perform but can’t anymore. I would inform your father of this but Mr. Pavlikovsky was unavailable. Work trip? He said he is wiring over money to pay for a cab to take you home—along with allowing me to sign the admittance waivers myself, of course.” Then he pulled his thin lips together to grin sheepishly and I knew my dad had threatened him in some way to let me go without a parent. 

Right. Another week of walking from school to an empty house that never looked lived in; having to watch old movies by myself, eating stale crusts of bread—were we out of sugar? Although scatterings of his presence (beer bottles, Marlboro boxes crushed in the waste bin) were evident throughout before he left, he could never stay home long. Fucking mines. 

“R-right. So..when can I go?” I started to ask, forgetting the real question I had waiting on the edge of my tongue, blurting it out just as the doctor began to answer:

“Wait! Theodore? Theodore _Decker_? Who is he?” The doctor, along with the other two in the room blinked back rapidly, clearly not expecting this outburst at all. 

“Is this someone you know, Boris? A memory?” The doctor asks, leaning in. 

“Theo? You mean the little  _ twink _ ?” Amber scoffed, seeming almost offended. Connor gaped at me and added on, “That’s who you remember? Him?”

“Okay? So? Who is he?” The doctor exhaled, an obvious dead end, and exited the room after leaving my release papers on the desk. 

“We don’t know! Some sophomore in your English class. Sits alone all the time. Tried making a pass at Jacob that one time..freak.” Connor said. 

I found myself reminiscing on Theo’s guarded expression. The reserved caution and fear. "Well, no wonder he's so lonely! You lot are all making fun of him for something he can't control!" The absence of context in the situation made me suddenly defensive, wondering who this poor boy was and why he was treated so badly.

"You're defending him! That's a first. You hate him!" Amber trilled, blue eyes widening. 

"I do not hate him!"  They were stunned. "Tell me I did not just hear those words come out of your mouth."

"Well, if you want to argue then leave! I have to go anyway."

"Yeah, okay. Go run to _him_ then, huh?" A bitter jab. 

"Fuck you! Get out!" I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, glaring. 

"I can't believe him!" Amber said. Before they left I heard her whisper: "Damn Connor, they're not gonna believe this. Boris! His own girlfriend is dead and he's prying about the gay kid? Unbelievable." 

_Girlfriend_? The word did not mean anything to me, I couldn't remember who I was or who I was attracted to at all. It was unnerving and exhilarating; a breath of fresh air, allowing my lungs to breathe unpolluted or tied down. 

My things were on the table. Release forms, ("Selective amnesia" popping out from the paragraphs) a few dollar bills and the clothes—freshly laundered and bleached of blood and grime—with my useless car keys and drained phone in the pockets. 

The date on the monitor said Sunday. I groaned out loud. Having to deal with all of the messages and the faces seemed as appealing as running myself over with a steamroller. 

I signed the papers, grimacing at the messy scrawl and used the pay phone to get a cab. I needed a drink. 

  
  



	3. theo

By the time I'd found out about the accident, Boris was already at the hospital (after a close inspection of our classmate's Instagram stories) and it was all spiraling into full-blown panic. Kotku was undeniably dead, but what of him? Any fatalistic injuries? 

I paced my room—with Popper's irritant barking behind the door—wondering what to do. Well, not what to do, there was in fact _nothing_ to do. More so how to react. 

My stupor took me back to when I first came here, first day of school in that penitentiary of a building. Illustrious first day of Honors English. Being forced to read _Walden_. Although I had thoroughly enjoyed the book itself, it's calm and secluded passages that I read over and over, no one else seemed to think the same (" _Who has the time to just mope around? We need civilization!"_ An uproar of agreements while I sat, feeble. 

_"Well, what's the matter with simplicity?"_ My voice barely above a mumble, but the entire room was dead silent as I spoke. A suppressed laugh, crumpled paper. 

The teacher, Mrs. Spear, looked up from her phone and gave me a hopeful smile, like a prison guard sending a slave into the lion's den. 

When Boris first noticed me that day, he drew his dark, expressive eyebrows together and laughed. The attention was overwhelmingly addictive. I took in his porcelain face and thin, angular body with relish. His manner was obvious: _nice try, idiot._

_"Like we need simplicity where we're living,"_ Boris laughed again—an insulting bark of a sound—with eyes still glaring in my direction. His foreign accent rang in my ears long after he had stopped talking. And I knew my place among them: outsider, no point in trying, straggling to keep up. I sighed and turned back to face Mrs. Spear with his face burning in my memory. A branding). 

And no matter how many times he tormented me ( _"Ha! Where's your prom dress, you fag?" "Oh, gonna go cry to your mommy? Oh wait.")_ I was so perplexed by the eccentricity that was Boris that I couldn't help but continue on with his games. He didn't hate me. He could not. His insults and remarks were so pointed yet inventive that it only made sense in lieu of the degree of attention he gave to me. Like a hateful owner's pitying eyes for a sick puppy. 

And the shitty part was, I couldn't hate him either; I was really engrossed in his life, wishing to be a part of his crowd, smoke those stupid cigarettes, live next to him. Borderline obsession. His glance my way—darkening stare, eyes like pitch—sent my insides into alarm, unsuccessfully trying to hide my reddened cheeks. Many nights I denied my feelings for him (repulsive!) but I came back to the same thoughts every time. I simply could not push myself away when Boris was constantly finding new ways to make fun of my sexuality, my clothes ( _"Go back to Hogwarts!"_ ) even the way that I spoke that it was difficult to ignore the ways I felt about him. The need I craved. 

But of course no one knew of this. Just like no one—but Welton Blackwell—knew about the painting, either. A similar yet complex similarity: obtaining the one thing you know was not meant for you, keeping it to yourself, staunching its very being. _The Goldfinch_ called to me in the same selfish way that I hoped Boris would push me and I fall on the lunch tables again, or flick his finger against my forehead in passing (" _идиот!_ ") while I stood in a daze. The persistent buzz of a fly in your peripheral vision. Psst. Hey, you. 

Ironically, my mother had been the only one to accept me for who I was, but was she up there, shaking her head in disapproval at my wretched episodes with Boris? Wishing I could find a nice girl, maybe one of the Danes in Physics with the pigtails?

No matter. I looked back at the clock—in bed now, letting Popper in out of needy comfort—and gaped at the _12:34 am_ in blinking red lights. The only illumination (the curtains blocking the moon) in the darkness. The little dog stretched while I lay there, a reassuring hand against his soft white belly. If Boris isn't at school tomorrow, then what? 

I wanted to decide, but exhaustion won in the end and I fell asleep, glasses on, half covered with Popper sprawled out between my knees, snoring and content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>translation in appearance<<
> 
> -идиот : idiot


	4. boris

I was nice and shit-faced when I collapsed onto my bed, the twinkle lights colorful and annoying around me. There was no point in trying to decipher Theo and his singularity in my mind now, I could hardly sit up straight in the state I was. A note from my father lay on the bedside table amongst empty chip bags and vodka bottles: _Borya, I am leaving for a week or so. There is money in the cabinet under the sink when you need it._

"Fat lot of good that does me now," I mumbled drunkenly and curled into a ball—three different kinds of patterned sheets—to sleep.

* * *

I woke, half-dressed (for I'd thrown off the hospital clothes as soon as my feet hit the carpet the night before) and stretched with an achy, sore muscle groan. Prescription painkillers lay on my haphazard desk, evidently opened; my phone had charged overnight and lit the dim room with an electric blue beam of notifications. Most of the messages were _Wishing you well! Hope you're okay!_ mixed with _Sorry about the amnesia dude, wait you remember me, right_ _?_ and _What's with Decker?_

_Him._ Frantic, he came to mind again, notable features on a distant face. I opened up my social media accounts to see if he had one: _nul._ Completely off the grid. 

I sighed, shut off my phone to get dressed. 

Before leaving, I double checked the bandage on my head, wincing at the crusted blood outlining the white edges; dissatisfied, I dabbed some rubbing alcohol to smear away the dried red globs. But I still looked like shit. My eyes were ringed in heavy purple circles, hair refusing to lay in a somewhat decent direction, small cuts and bruises along my arms and clavicle when I pulled my hoodie up. 

There wasn't any use lying; everyone and their mother knew that I had been the one behind the wheel during that wreck. Killing an innocent girl whose name and face would never strike a chord within my being. 

"Fuck." I hated getting into a mood this dark, this early. It sent me into a tumult of black, hopeless thoughts I would have normally accepted wholeheartedly; but after the accident I was stripped of my self, not knowing my surroundings—my _girlfriend?_ —and associations with them. I gripped the living room counter to steady myself, steady my breathing before downing a few more painkillers to get me through the day pleasantly numb. 

The other matter: _no car?_ Did the CAT run this early? Might as well throw away my keys too, a past-life memento of sorts. 

The desert sun burned down on everything once outside, making my eyes water at the gleam. Black umbrella open, shadowy and sheltered. 

In the distance the bus turned onto my street with a cacophony of grumbles and motor whines. It sputtered to my house—youngish driver barely glancing my way as I got on. The CAT typically transported the afternoon drunks, or in my case kids who lived too far out to walk to school. Sand-dusted booths, torn blue leather patched with fibrous tape; the stale smell of mildew and foam rot. 

I sat in the front (who cares if they see me or not?) and watched the streets rumble past in the window. Another stop; bus brakes screeching to a halt. Hardly the time to see the sign ( _Desert End Rd):_ a lone boy got on, pale face with dirty blonde hair. Cream cardigan, crisp white undershirt, glasses. His eyes met mine and froze me in my seat: _Theodore._

His eyes went wide for a second, bright irises; then gave me a frown (?) and shuffled past. 

"Wait!" I turned in my seat to reach out with one hand, bruises aching. Theo stopped, stiffened and inched around. 

"Yes..?" His voice was wavering, expectant and soft, like a tortured bird. Cheeks warm. I took in the resemblance of him to the memory; same sad posture, a half-worried sweep of the eyes across the empty bus. We stared for what felt like eternity. 

Then it occurred—what to say? How to explain? 

"The accident," he says instead, moving a millimeter closer towards me, hesitant, "Are you okay?"

"Oh. Yes! Well, _no_ ," I began to explain, excited to actually recall a face from my contemporary life that my eagerness melted into stupidity. But Theo took another step—sitting down!—and continued to wait for an answer. 

"See, I was really fucked," (I point to my bandage, a deep frown on his face) "and I have amnesia? Am I saying it correct?" Theo scrutinized me, making me question if I chose the right word. 

"So..you don't remember me?" 

"I remember your face! Actually, you are the only person in Vegas I recognize. But," I bite my lip, the fun part, "I do know you, but do not? I know your face, your name. But not who you are."

The words simmered for a few moments while the bus navigated the windy desert roads. 

"Who are you exactly then? Not to be rude," Theo adjusted his glasses as I asked—instinctive turn of the head to flick a strand of hair away—and pondered. 

"....Your friend." Voice barely rising above the din of the bus's tires. 

"Hah! Okay," I bump his shoulder companionably—a Tourette's level twitch in response, red face—and put my palms out in front of me: _please explain._

"Good friends, no?" 

Theodore exhaled and gave me a shy smile. "You could say that."

The bus screeched again to a halt and its doors creaked open. "Okay, well, thank you for letting me know," I observe his outfit once more, trying to place its familiarity:

"Let's go then, _Harry Potter._ " A devilish grin on my end, a sickening look of disbelief on his. 

"What? Am I wrong? You look a lot like Potter, no?" I gesticulate to his clothes, glasses. 

"W-well yeah, you do tease me about _that_." A bashful smirk as he hops off the bus. 

I did not know then that I was the start of something beautiful and vicious, knowing Theodore Decker. Yet I proceeded to grasp his memories attached to mine; a tapestry of interwoven truths. With the empty space in my head, how was I to know reality apart from fiction?

"Alright then, wait up Potter!"


	5. theo

The stares continued as Boris and I walked into Honors English—mouths agape, even a few glares (a lot of people liked Boris). I was a little taken back by his readiness and acceptance at my explanations of our previous affairs. Yes, Boris was a friend in some way—who else would consistently tease and prod at your most vulnerable places deep within? Who else would remember the exact date that your mother had died just to mention it every time your paths crossed?

My guilt was riddled with exasperated relief in my predicament; yes, it was lying, but it was not in so many other dimensions. 

He gave a disapproving scowl at his previous friends, whom I assumed he did not remember as we passed their seats, walked in a completely different direction from them at lunch, even on the bus home. It was absurd, yet it was not. Even Mrs. Spear averted her attention from a tattered paperback to inquire about his newfound habits—no longer pulling my hair as he walked past, instead turning in his seat to ask about the difference between an iambic pentameter and a _tetrameter_. 

I was beyond baffled myself; what caused this to happen? Forget fate. This was a type of celestial torment that was concocted just for me. 

"Remind me where you are from?" Boris's voice was hesitant as he asked, on the bus home—"You live in Canyon Shadows too? Dirty lots, the desert is reclaiming, where my dad and I live."—when he noticed I had drifted into a channel of thought that tuned out all else. It happened more often now; catatonic, blissful. 

But Boris? Living in the jointed complex a few miles from mine? I had envisioned him and his family to be living in one of the richer housing communities like all of the army brats or car dealership kids. 

"Sorry, zoned out for a second," I mumbled, "I grew up in New York." _Time warp._ A sorrowful pang of remembrance at my mother's apartment, it felt like centuries past. The movers filing away her art books, sketches, perfume bottles; an emptying stadium after another lost game, my dad's expression an infuriated reflection in the black TV screen. 

"And your parents?" Boris said. 

"I live with my dad and his girlfriend..But my mother passed away." I cringed, waiting for him to smile and make another cruel joke like he used to, but instead he frowned deeply and sighed.

"I am sorry. _Truly._ My mother, she is dead also. Fell out of window." A mirthless laugh.

"Museum bombing." 

At this Boris's eyebrows shot up in amusement. "Ah, yes, I heard about that! How did you get out?" One of the downfalls to Boris's personality was his lack of tact: _Right, too soon to ask, Potter. Am sorry again, tragic accident._ We rode in silence for a while until the CAT stopped to let us out—the only ones left. 

"Do you remember your way home?" I asked Boris once outside, who was frantically scrolling through his phone with one hand and fumbling with his black umbrella in the other: his persistent dislike of the sun and all things hot. The dry wind made his hair blow across his face in wisps, exposing a few cuts and the nasty looking bandage across his sweaty forehead. 

"Yes. But my head is killing me, let me tell you. Cannot wait until nighttime! The sun gives me terrible headache. Say, want to get drinks? My house?" 

He was busy getting the umbrella open—giving me time to wipe my palms over my face in awe. The amount of times I had wished for this. But what is he was only pretending? What then? I tried to deny his genuine concern and interest in me—after all, not Theodore Decker, his _Friend_ —and distance myself but it was all too good to be true. 

"Well, actually, I think I have to let out my dog...Technically my dad's girlfriend—Xandra— _her_ dog. He has to be let out. When I get home from school." It all rushed out in an incoherent mess. Internally screaming; being pummeled with idiocy as Boris stared, befuddled. 

He gripped the umbrella handle, casting a foul glare of criticism—the way his brow furrowed into a grimace upwards sent me into hysterics—at the sun before saying: "Well okay, I'll come help you then." His voice, commanding and familiar (could very well make you do anything if phrased the right way). 

"Well-" _why am I still making excuses?_

"Do you have movies? _S.O.S. Iceberg?"_ Boris interrupted, a strangely descriptive request. 

"I'm pretty sure we do." A flustered hand behind my head, worrying over the trivialities: would he make fun of my room? What about the painting—safely taped behind my headboard—somehow slipping into Boris's intrusive fingers?

"Unless," A dramatic pause of breath as Boris's dark eyes widen on me, a pale hand to his chest, "Will your dog be okay? Yes, God forbid the poor dog won't be able to take his _shite_." 

His familiar harsh laughter and I shoved his side into the road. Maybe it'll work out? 

"Oh, shut up." Boris stumbled back over to me with a grin. 


	6. boris

Among other things, Theo was nice. Funny, agreeable even. But definitely reserved, like he has a lot to tell but would not share. I wouldn't blame him; It's not like I haven't got secrets myself and It must be hard having to play along with my amnesia. 

Once inside his house, I noticed it was almost the same as mine except his was not littered with garbage; the after effect of constant absences and neglect on my part from being too shit-faced to do anything about it. He found me some aspirin while I opened the patio door—"You have a pool? Ours is dried up! Fuck!"—for the dog. The little dog (Popper) was a wiry, white girly looking thing that barked and whined for attention the second he came through the glass door. 

"Sorry. He's been alone all day. Xandra doesn't get back from her shifts till late." Theo said while bending down to fix some food on the floor for the dog, causing his glasses to slip off the bridge of his nose and clatter to the outlined tile. 

Instinctively I reached for them, hand outstretched, wanting to help—it was the least I could do, poor guy, having to put up with me. I beat him to it, crouching down to his level with the glasses balanced on my palm. 

"Oh. Uh, thanks," Theo's fingers twitched while I slid the handles behind his ears, slowly, deliberately trying not to hurt him (Do people with glasses accidentally poke themselves in their eyes often?). His head tilted up minutely, lashes brushing against the smudged lenses. His face warm, cream ivory skin blooming over a rose blush. A memory comes back: _"The Dutch invented the microscope." Some art class that felt like eons ago. Details in agonizing proximity. Like a painting seen from afar, still appreciated, but not as beautiful and characteristic as up close._

"Shit! Sorry Potter, I got prints on them." I said while reaching for him again to see If I could wipe the marks off but he put his hand up to push mine away. 

"It's fine. It's _okay_ Boris." He persisted to move away from me when I tried taking his glasses again, playful smiles—nervous gestures, making it almost a game: him dashing to the couch while I stomped my way over. 

I shouted at him in abusive Polish while downing a few more aspirin with the carbonated water he found in the back of the fridge for me—old, stale taste like no one has touched it. 

"What?" Theo stops and smiles wide, a foreign object on the atmosphere across his face. From all the memories I had of him—glimpses of his face, his mannerisms, like a photo album of strictly one appearance—I'd never noticed Theo's dimpled smile; mainly due to the fact that none of his memories were happy ones. 

"Ah, nothing. Is nothing." I yawned and stretched, feeling the edges of my hoodie slipping above my fatigues—much to Theo's distress.

Reddened face: "Would you like something to eat?" Eyes on my concave stomach (the result of forgetting to eat, or, alternatively, only eating orange flavored Tic-Tacs and vodka by the bottle). 

"Yes! Thank you, I really am starving."

He started toasting some bread from the cupboard as I opened the side door for the dog to come back inside; he yipped happily at my presence and jumped onto my ankles—tiny claws digging into my bruised legs. "Down, Popchyk!"

* * *

Later that night ( _"Do you want to try to do some homework?"_ ) I was in Theo's bedroom with the dog resting in my lap at the foot of the bed while Theo found a different movie. 

"My dad has cable, so I don't think we can watch _S.O.S. Iceberg._ But I've never seen this one before," he said but I shushed him because Popchyk was asleep; a playful thwack against my pant leg in response. As we watched the movie—some 1900's war drama—another thought occurred: _"Tried to make a pass at Jacob that one time..freak." Connor's disgusted tone still fresh in my ears._

Apart from the few people I'd known who were homosexual—older Polish relatives from my mother's side who had hardly attended family gatherings when I was very young, couples passionate and in love on the street, porn—I had no frame of reference for Theo: how did anyone really know? I did not remember him with anyone else before, and if he did, who cared? Theo did not seem overtly expressive with his preferences, but he was oddly at ease around disgruntled and sporadic me (a shudder when I bumped his shoulder by accident, the slightest of touches would set him off from my end, but allowed a teasing jostle when I commented on his inability to toast bread—" _Idiot! You burned it!"_ I complained loudly—his knee flush against mine as we sat cross-legged on the carpet). The complexity was alluring in an unknown way; maybe it was the amnesia, the pills, the head trauma but with him I didn't feel gloomy or vengeful like I knew myself to be. I was airy and light, untied to any moral coils that had held me down before, when I could remember. I was whole almost in these few hours; in the only corny fucking way to express it. Even in this short time together it felt like it was making up for the time lost. 

I looked over to Theo—shadowy figure slumped against the floor, frontal view outlined in blue from the screen—and gasped at his trembling shoulders, his hands pressed over his ears. 

"Theodore, are you okay?" A chalky grey explosion emitting from the TV, coating everything in grit and debris, Popper skittering off me in a yelp. 

He opened his eyes, frightened and disturbed: his face was vacant and he did not answer so I shook his shoulder and asked again.

Finally he came to. "Y-yeah, I'm fine." He adjusted his glasses and sat up straight as if nothing had happened.

"What was that? What happened?"

And the he told me about the bombing. The explosion, the crashing support beam that killed his mother in the process.

"The smallest things set it off," Theo was saying, desensitized to the entire story, "Even a car alarm makes my tinnitus go crazy—sharp and high pitched." I looked back at the movie, all guns and explosives, and shut it off. His room was lit now by only the red twinkle lights strung across the headboard, casing us in a dim glow on the floor. 

"Did you get taken to the hospital? After?" Theo shifted uncomfortably and sat on the bed, a crown of crimson color framing his blonde hair from behind, his whole body tinted red. 

"Who I was staying with, they only got me checked a few weeks later. It was too late to see if it was a concussion or anything." 

"I'm so sorry, Potter..." My back was arched towards him until I too sat on the bed—with him making room without my having to ask. 

"It's okay, I don't know why I freaked like that. Sorry, I just can't really do war movies..Or crowds.." Theo said with an embarrassed laugh. 

"Nonsense! I guess we will have to be more careful, yes?" A loud slam from downstairs, a lively voice:

_"Hey Theo? You up there, kiddo?"_

Theo's eyes shut and he flopped onto the bed. 

"My dad." he groaned. 

_"Theo! I brought back Chinese!"_

"I think you better answer him," I stood up and found my bag. Too fast; my head swam and I wobbled over to the nightstand. 

"Coming?" Theo asked, eyeing my hunched form—"Headache. Or drunk. Probably both, really." 


	7. theo

Boris ended up going home around ten—much to his displeasure, walking home in the dark and a splitting headache—with an empty bottle of aspirin and some scotch he had swiped on the way out when my dad wasn't looking. ("So this is Boris?" my dad had said, lo mein halfway to his mouth, eyes wide while taking in his jungle boots, ripped fatigues and Boris's overall scrawny homeless persona. Perturbed, taken aback even by all of the things I found attracting: sharp cheekbones, accusatory glare, the way he chewed on his full lip when he was mad. 

"Yes, hello Mr. Potter! Very nice to meet you and your son," A strangely personal handshake exchanged, much to my dad's disbelief). 

Finally I fell onto my bed around midnight, staring up at the colored ceiling. Everything was a mess; between my guilt-soaked conscious and panic attacks I was mildly pleased. Most of my months in Vegas were undeniably lonesome, but it was almost uncanny—the drinking, the car accident, Boris just so happens to lose his memory ( _and only remember me?_ ). The odds were extremely weighted. 

I switched the light back on and fished for my notebook, the black leather-bound one my English teacher had given me back in New York. Writing the most inessential of things, but I knew that in the end it was going to matter. It had to. Things my mother would never read read but kept me closer to her. The amount of entries solely about Boris was shameful: _I would not consider it obsession if not for the consistent dwelling on him I spent, and how low I would become if he came to school with another black eye, (Mr. Pavlikovsky was beginning to seem very stoic and violent in my mind's eye) my own fervent loyalty, or another absence._ Reminding me of that day, pacing my mother's apartment, waiting for the call, her name on the list, her exuberant sigh as she steps through the door, _I'm back puppy, let's make some dinner!_

My fingers found themselves gripping the back of the headboard, reaching for it. The sound of duct tape ripping off in a nasty tear. _Freed._

The painting was in my hands now. Holding onto it; holding her. Still wrapped in newsprint ( _"Stock market stabilizes, What To Do in an Emergency Crisis_ " the faded headline) but it was perfect. Cradling the small bundle, crinkly paper in response to my slumped form on the bed; mindless rocking. Letting a lone tear leak out and slide across my nose. Knowing she would never come back. 

Never take me to the Met again—"This one was always my favorite."

_Did it have to live its entire life, chained up like that?_


	8. boris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw//: homophobia/offensive, also fluff but thats not a trigger :3

Theo and I had formed a sort of routine between school and his house that it was beginning to feel normal. The weeks trickled by: taking the CAT together, old movies on his flatscreen upstairs while attempting to finish our homework—even though I was a year ahead of him—muddled with minor arguments and fights, all getting over them a few minutes afterward. (I'd somewhat persuaded Theo to take blow a few times; him disturbed mildly unsettled by the whole ordeal that I usually took my drugs by myself). 

Basically we were together all of the time; inseparable thanks to the virtually nonexistent supervision. It was affable, simple. 

"Come over to my house Potter. You will like it, lots of drinks!"

At this point in the night Theo was already sleepy—it was the look in his eyes, heavy-lidded and pink with sweat—and nodded absently at anything I said. It may or may not have been influenced by the vodka I'd brought over again. Theo didn't drink, or, never had; he was pouring way too much, like it was water into his cup. We only drank this late because he had told me no one was home, it being a Friday night. 

"You've never been. Well, you have, probably. But let's say you have not so it is new for me! Grab your things." I was picking up the loose clothes of mine off the floor when I heard Theo fall back onto the bed with a dizzy laugh. 

"Oh, you are so drunk. Maybe is best if there are no more drinks for you," I grinned down at him, his eyes glassy from the alcohol. 

"I'm fine I'm fine." He staggered up—my hands gripping his sides to stabilize him—and took his school jacket. 

"Should we take Popchyk?" He drawls while wiping his eyes for the fifth time or so. 

"No. But I do think you need something to keep you awake." 

"I already told you I'm fine! I don't wanna throw up," Theo mumbled while yanking the jacket from my arms to put it on. 

* * *

"Boris, It's so _cold_."

"I know. Is because my dad forgets to pay for heat sometimes." An awkward pause as I turned on all the lights in the house—hoping Theo would ignore the cigarette packets and dust on every visible surface.

I led him upstairs, away from the remnants of my father to my room; the lights still on from when I'd left this morning. An ashtray on the bedside table near to overflowing.

"Wow," Theo said, taking in the batik-draped mattress and numerous flags and tapestries all over. I made him drink some tea—after he'd thrown up a little on the way down the stairs—before leaving his house ("Stop your whining! It will help!") and he had sobered up from then on, although the way his eyes tracked the walls was still sluggish. 

He paused, then spoke hurriedly: "I mean, I-I've seen your room before, of course...but it just surprises me..s-still." 

"Yeah. Every move, and it all still fits in a suitcase." 

"It's super cool," Theo said as he gently sat down on the floor, leaning on the mattress. I checked the clock and then switched on my tiny old television, whatever tape was previously in had picked back up again. 

I lit a cigarette, passing it over to Theo first—shake of the hand, _no no, it's okay_ —and sat down next to him. We watched the movie in silence (a romance drama, not remembering why I'd watched it in the first place aside from the Russian subtitles but was otherwise perfectly fine for Theo) until I noticed he hadn't moved or spoken in a while. 

A glance over was enough to see that he had fallen asleep; his head lolled towards my shoulder, hair falling and his glasses starting to slip off his nose. I studied his features as he shifted half-asleep to rest his head on my side, a gentle touch and his head brushing mine. 

My skin burned at the pressure, the new contact. I was around Theo long enough now to be accustomed to his presence but this was different: it was innocent, with him asleep and me wondering what to do. I didn't want to wake him. I just sat with my head turned to watch his sleeping shape. Once again being able to take him in up close: the steady rise and fall of his chest, his knuckles pink and warped from where he had burned himself on the stove at his house. Tiny, inconsequential things that made him up as a whole. 

The moment was suspended in time, the peaceful sounds of sleep and the metronomic drone of the television, white noise. I had the strongest impulse to reach down and brush the hair from his eyes; worried that it would wake him up and the moment would be lost forever. _Only to help._

Gently, I took my hand and moved aside the blonde strands (oddly surprised by how soft Theo's hair was, his warm cheeks) and stopped in the process to register the blush that came over my face in doing so. I blinked, my hand was cupping his cheek now, relishing in his soft skin, how deeply amusing and compelling it all was, like handling a small bird: tentative, enthralled, enticed. 

Theo sniffed and mumbled something sleepily, making a nuzzling movement with his head against my cheek—a cuddly action, meant more for lovers than friends—while I sat, flustered and thrown off balance at myself. 

_"What is this? Boris!"_ A thunderous shout in Ukrainian from my side; my father, eyes red—blasted drunk—with an angry scowl. 

Theo awoke with a start, eyes fixed on my hand against his face and then at my father in the doorway. 

_"You're home? You said a week only! I thought you were not coming back,"_ I responded in Ukrainian, trying to steady my rapid heart and hope my father would not come near Theo. When he got in his moods, it usually ended in my getting hurt; that I remember. 

_"Yes. But I am here now. Who is this boy you bring into my home? What are you doing, fondling his face like that?"_

Theo remained silent; glancing wildly at the aggressive foreign exchange between us. 

_"It was nothing!"_

_"It was! Get out! Go!"_ He yelled, waving his arms at Theo and screaming something in Russian about homosexuals: _sewer rats._

Stifling my anger, I turned to Theo. "Potter, we must go. Now!" I pulled him up—he was still sleepy and disoriented—and he allowed me to rush past my belligerent father holding onto this arm. 

"What happened? _Boris_?" He asked, louder when I did not answer. I was focused on getting us far away, and I only spoke until we were a mile from my house. 

Breathing heavy with emotion: "He did not like that you were there. And I do not think I will be able to go home tonight, I guess we know now that we can only drink at your house, no?" I pulled a grin, heart like lead at Theo's flushed expression, glasses askew. 

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" he said. I guided him out of the complex; the desert winds blew up, both warm and unsettlingly cold on our faces around us, this late at night. I thanked whatever was above that Theo did not question what he saw of me when he woke up. 

When we got to his house, the dog was waiting for us, chained, barking like mad at our arrival. I scooped him up while Theo unlocked the house—his dad and Xandra worked late, or stayed on the Strip, allowing me to slip home when it was after dark without anyone noticing. I carried Popper up to Theo's bedroom where he wriggled free of my grasp to hop up on the bed and curl into a furry heap. 

"Hey, Potter, sorry about tonight. He did not say he would be back so early. Early by his standards." Theo was in the bathroom as I said this, coming out in nightclothes—minus the glasses. He just shook his head with a drowsy motion and crawled into bed. I glanced around the room—was there a mattress? pillows to sleep on?—and remembered the couch downstairs. 

"Well, goodnight. I'll go downstairs then," I said, patting the dog on the head when Theo did not answer: already asleep. His closed eyes and emotionless face took me back to an hour prior, the undisturbed purity of the moment. The desire of connection, depravity of touch. 

"Just sleep here." Theo's voice was rough with sleep, shifting closer to the right side of the bed to make room. _Really?_

I unzipped my jacket and turned off the overhead light with an apprehensive hand. His bed was warm, with much thicker blankets than mine, making me feel oddly comfortable laying in someone else's room. 

_With them in it._

_God, stop thinking, Boris._ I was hyperaware of Theo's every movement in the night: a quiet dreamy murmur, his shoulders shifting back dangerously close to my chest. The venetian blinds casting bluish slits of color agains the opposite wall, amoebas of reflective pool light. 

With a sigh, I leaned closer towards him, him smelling of chamomile tea and smoke, willing myself to sleep. Once I had—with Theo's hair resting just below my chin—it was the most pleasant rest I had in a long time. 


	9. theo

I checked my iPod for the time—four in the morning—and looked around the room. Slightly confused at my surroundings (I always slept on the left side of my bed, now staring at the wall covered with the pool light's glow) when I felt a familiar, gentle snore from behind. The pressure of another body on the mattress, definitely not Popper. Boris rolled over, closer to me, and placed an arm around my waist; I am frozen in place, his warm, calloused fingers gingerly laying across my stomach. Forcing my eyes to train on the dirty laundry, Boris's crushed cigarette packets: anything but focusing on the surge of pleasure. 

Afraid to wake him, I shuddered and attempted to scoot away but Boris only sighed and pulled me into him. Closer, his head nestled towards my back and sent chills of vicious want down my spine. Popper slept, oblivious. 

_"Shhh,"_ Half asleep, his husky voice. Hot on my skin, _"Is only me."_

We lay there like that until eventually I fell back asleep, lulled by his breath in my ear, the smell of his shirt, his hair—the stench of beer, a faint cologne filled my nostrils—the entire platitude of the scene itself calmed me immensely. 

But I wondered if Boris would remember it at all in the morning. I wanted it to be something; allowing my heart to read into it. From what I saw earlier last night—a drowsy awakening, murmurs from Boris's TV: _his hand resting on my cheek, wide eyes (is this okay?) bony fingers deliberate, broken by the harsh sounds of his father_ —I wanted to abandon any precepts on his previous life and ask. But how? I was mainly afraid that if I spoke up about it he would deny me the truth (I could already hear Boris and his contemptuous laughter, the impatient noise he makes when something does not go his way) but maybe he would just be too embarrassed to say anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly fluff :3 but I hoped you liked it!


	10. theo

Xandra and my dad were rummaging through the kitchen early the next morning. Boris had mysteriously left, when I woke up (I was upset to some childish degree, expecting to see his sleeping form when I opened my eyes); the only pieces of his presence were the half-finished bottle of beer on the floor, the familiar smell of his clothes and a note left stuck to my phone: _Hpy Thankzgiving Potter :) Will b bck at 12? - **B**_

"Damn it!" Xandra cried while slapping her tanned thigh. "Mosquitoes." She was scooping coffee grounds into the filter and I watched them bicker back and forth about their reserved table for their Romantic Holiday Extravaganza at the MGM grand, uneasy about my inclusion on that when I spoke up:

"Hey, dad? Is it alright if I stay here for Thanksgiving?" He stopped what he was doing (pouring milk into his coffee) and turned to look. 

"I mean, sure kid. What're you gonna do anyway?" Now he was inspecting the fridge, choosing a half-eaten banana. 

"Probably just have a friend over." 

"Let me see," Xandra poured herself a cup, "Whoever's eating all this fruit I bring home." 

"Right!" my dad said while hugging her middle, "You like him, don't you? That little Russki. _Boris?_ " 

His name made me shiver. Although my dad was faintly aware of my being gay, I was not expecting a comment quite like that. I scrambled to answer—the glass of water I was drinking dribbling down my chin—wild:

"Uh, if you want to know? But I don't think it's really necessary—" Adjusting my glasses again, compulsory habit. 

He turned to look at me, his expression a cross between _ew, okay son,_ and _was I asking you?_

"I guess I like him," Xandra replied with her back to me, Miami Dolphins jersey, cracked number _71_ stretched over her shoulder blades, "But he could do to go live at his _own_ house, huh?" 

Oh. I tried to recover by wiping the soggy mess on the countertop— _great, now they probably know._

"Alright, well If Theo doesn't come, then we can leave early Larry? If it's a day pass, it's a bit of a drive. Are the casinos open?" Xandra was saying, casting a worried glance at my shaking hands slopping up the water with a paper towel. 

He mumbled something along the lines of _fine whatever,_ and exited the room with a mug towards the TV. 

"Alright then. I'll go get ready." She passes me—a pitiful stare this time, _sucks, kiddo_ —and retreats to their (always) locked bedroom. 

* * *

They left around eleven and with nothing to do—Popper itching to go outside, homework done, upstanding citizen—I went for a swim to clear my head. There was a patch of small patch of dirt and an assortment of succulents in the backyard Popper liked to lay by, so I left a bowl of water out to swim, uninterrupted. 

The cool water suspended me, it gave me a new sense of being—plunging deeper, the glittering aquamarine mosaic at the very bottom—like I was a much younger child. A diver, a sea monster. After a few laps I noticed (between the flickering tendrils of sunlight breaking through the water) a dark shadow looming overhead. 

_Boris_. Immediately I swam upwards, anxiety piercing me already, to meet him. My head broke the surface, dripping, standing next to him—splattering the concrete with droplets. I searched for my glasses through the murky surroundings but they were nowhere. 

"Looking for something?" He teased, dangling a spindly brown blob in his fingers: my specs. 

I snatched them, a sluggish movement in my near-blindness and saw Boris, fully. The scar on his forehead had healed considerably well from a few weeks prior, wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a loose knit maroon sweater (hung loosely on his neck, exposed collarbones, the slightest flush on his chest).

Boris smiled in greeting, holding a grocery bag and a bundle of clothes in one hand. His dark eyes slid down my body quickly, in a manner that was both intrusive and curious: he had never seen me swim before. And then it hit me—no swim trunks necessary in New York, I only swam in underwear. I shivered in delight from the cold and the attention, the interest. 

"Where are my clothes?" I looked at the spot I'd left them but they weren't there. Boris scanned the measly yard and barked out a laugh. 

"There, Potter." He came up from behind me, startled by his closeness to point at where Popper lay: snoring atop a dusty heap of now-unidentifiable fabric, muddled with spit and torn. 

"Aw, fuck." Boris hooted with laughter at this and thrust the clothes he'd held onto to my bare chest. 

"What?" It was an old T-shirt that he loved to wear. A black tee with three grey kittens across the front. 

"I brought a spare change in case, you know," he mimed the action of throwing up, "But, this works too." 

"Thanks," I pushed him into the house. 

I took a stiff towel left from days before off the patio chair to wipe myself dry, then pulled the shirt over my head. At once I was consumed with his scent; a musty, linen closet smell that hung in my nose long after, the tang of smoke—all Boris. 

"You like it, yes?" He asked, giving me a once-over with amusement, "It looks good." 

It went past my knees. Granted, I was a few inches shorter then Boris—his chin went to my temple—but I had no idea how he managed to wear this. 

Faint blush: "Yeah, It's great. Thank you. And, what's in the bag?" 

He flashed a smile that exposed his grey teeth, and held the bag up with a flourish. "My contribution to our Thanksgiving!" With a laugh, I took the bag from him to inspect. He had bought (or stolen) a tall bottle of Absolut, some restaurant style tortilla chips—sugar packets for him, salsa for me—and a package of frozen taquitos. 

"You bought all this?" 

He shook his hand, _comme ci, comme ca._

"Is thievery really the way we want to go about our food? I have money." Boris snorted at this and mumbled something in Russian, in which I only caught the words _Americans_ and _democracy._

"Let's watch the parade!" He took the bag from me—taking all but the taquitos—and dashed to the leather couch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Also the scene with Larry calling Boris "little Russki" I have always thought he was implying this to Theo in the actual book so there you go))


	11. theo

"Ugh, I don't want to watch this." Boris groaned from the floor, his face mushed in the carpet and pointed listlessly at the television. After a lengthy drinking session, with the parade over, our Thanksgiving dinner consisted of chips and burnt taquitos. Now, Boris and I sat on the floor—on the better end of drunk, it being around 7pm now—in my bedroom with the TV on an undetermined station. I didn't expect Xandra or my dad till late. 

"Quit whining," I joined him on the floor (he crawled closer in a zombie-like motion once I lay there) and found the History channel. 

"Psst," He whispered, face and hands still clung to the floor. But before I could laugh it off Boris has rose from off the carpet to crash into me, toppling us onto the floor. It was a wrestling match, a drunken one at best. I fumbled against his fingers, laughing and cursing, until Boris had managed to pin me down with a successful grin, his hips digging into my stomach. His dark curls fell down across his face, in agonizing closeness, nose slightly pink from the vodka. 

Expression softened, still staring down at me, our faces within dangerous reach. I blushed furiously, even more so at the fact that Boris's cheeks were red too. I could see the long lashes framing his eyes, boring into mine—a swift movement at my lips, watching me breathe, igniting me thoroughly. 

"Theo," He said softly, more in surrender than caution, dark eyes filled with wonder. And then I gingerly extended a hand, a deer approaching the hunter, towards his cheek—warm, flushed skin—to pull his lips down to mine. He let out a soft, awed sound, kissing me back. Boris's mouth softened around mine, no longer holding me down but pressing his chest to me; all of this in a minute or so, his tongue tasting of honey (a post-drunk cup of tea) and his lips leaving the slightest twinge of alcohol. It was bliss and torture, the fear of allowing the smallest percentage of pleasure to seep in. 

Boris pulled away, just barely, our noses touching and both of us staring at each other in amazement. 

" _Theo_." He repeated, his voice deeper and pronounced. I wanted to kiss him badly (the times I'd dreamt this, the nights that kept me awake); everything I had imagined. He let out a breath and smiled decisively. 

"I'm sorry, was that oka-" He lifted me up off the floor, sitting on the backs of his legs and held me against him, dashing a wet kiss on the exposed side of my neck—making me shiver pleasantly. It was all new; fantasies did not do me any justice as I lay here with it actually happening, what to do, how to act. 

Holding me there; a gentle embrace, the words within actions. 

"You're the only boy I've...I have never felt this way," his mouth on my hair, one hand around the nape of my neck with the other holding me tight. "But it feels..right. Yes?" 

I could hardly speak: the moment too pure and perfect that I only nodded, enjoying the not normally sweet smell of his clothes and the electric buzz his kiss had left on me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ah, I love a good fluff chapter. stay tuned mortals cuz there's more ehehe~


	12. boris

There. In my arms. Before, wondering what to do—catching myself staring time and time again, his bare chest fresh out of the pool dripping with water. Had I beed blushing? I just remembered wanting to know what his skin felt like, running my fingers across his body like a sculptor admiring his creation. 

Now, his body on mine, his clothes, my clothes actually, faintly beginning to smell of chlorine. I remembered, definitely being physical with girls in my past; almost able to picture the dissatisfaction and fatigue. But with Theo, his touch left me invigorated, pouring desire out of me, leaving me wanting more. It was such a new feeling—were my old friends right? Knowing I would eventually just be running to him?  
  


With his head still resting on my chest, I lifted his chin up with a delicate forefinger. His brown eyes were wide, content but also surprised at the impossibility of it all. Theo stiffened as I pressed my mouth to his neck once more, letting myself enjoy: the feel of his skin, softly kissing his jaw, the salty taste of sweat on my tongue. It was an art form, luxurious and startling. Theo exhaled quietly, mingled with a cry as I kissed him more deliberately, further (the entirety becoming more comfortable, no longer checking to make sure he liked it or not—having no doubt I was myself). The minutes trickled by, fast movements and prolonged kisses, now lifting him up—instinctually wrapped his legs around my waist, delicious pressure—and fell back onto the bed. 

_"Boris."_ Theo whispered with his hands on my shoulders. 

"Hmm?" I asked with his earlobe between my teeth. He was practically writhing at my touch, letting out all sorts of little murmurs that made my skin crawl in a whole different way. Primal. 

"Is this..okay for you?" He asked. His neck was speckled with little love bites, and when I puled back to stare up at him I saw his face was flustered, full of emotion. 

"Stupid question, you. I am wondering if you are okay, Potter. You are..very squirrelly." He let out a laugh and nodded. 

"it's just that I've never done this before." 

"At all?" Curious, I continued kissing him (collarbone fitting perfectly against my mouth) a breathy moan from Theo, his hands pulling at my hair—both actions making my heart pound desperately—and in response I slid my hands under the hem of his shirt, testing the waters. 

_"Ow, Boris, you're hurting me."_ Theo said, putting his fingers on my hip bones, jutted and angular. 

"Too skinny?" I laughed, tracing the marks on his neck, letting my teeth graze the skin there while slowly lifting my shirt up over his head. 

In the subdued lighting, Theo had numerous rivulets of scar tissue that marred his back and shoulders I had not seen this morning: the result of the accident, the museum bombing—a piece of glass here, loose chips of a wooden frame there. 

"Is okay," I reassured him when he fidgeted at my fingers on the raised scars, "They are a part of you now. With or without, I do not care, Potter." He softened at this, his hand sweeping up under my sweater—intrusive fingertips, a barely there touch driving me wild. Hands on my hips, lightly brushing my stomach up to my ribs—tracing the shapes, curves and caress, making me tingle all over. 

Lips met mine, hungrier, a press of tongue on my teeth. The tension was insane, his enthusiasm making me want him; want more. 

I ran my hands down his chest one more time before letting them fall to his legs, toying down under the waistband of his sweats. 

"Hey, I-I don't know..kind of soon..." Theo said with his breath hot in my ear; making me want to ignore his request. He didn't sound like he wanted to stop, his voice rushed, quickly getting out the words before he himself decided to change his mind. 

"You sure, Potter?" I grinned, letting my fingers trail lower, pulling the elastic down. 

" _Borya_ ," Theo laughed over a groan of pleasure, red in the face and taking my hands away. He scooted off of me and sat cross-legged on the sheets. Glasses hanging off his nose, his hair a ruffled mess and his neck and chest were covered with bruises and purple marks: perfect. 

I sighed. "You are right. There is time." Theo wiped his cheeks and yawned. Playfully, I picked him up and deposited him on the peeled back covers. He removed his glasses and nestled in, his voice quiet:

"Are you planning on staying?" Cautious. 

"After _that_ , how could I leave?" A laugh, quickly changing into boxers from the communal heap of laundry—him looking away politely, more for him than me, another deep blush—before turning out the overhead light. 

In the dark we were as far apart as possible; two stars waiting to collide. 

"C'mere." I pulled him to my chest, us holding onto each other like lost children. Theo yawned again and settled himself around me. He fell asleep quickly—the steady rise and fall of his breathing—while I lay awake and thought about how, only a few months prior I was an entirely different person; even more, laying with my arms around a boy, damaged and broken. Much like me. Our companionship only strengthened my feelings, a life raft if one of us fell too far. 

Theo's voice was muffled against my chest, soft and airy in sleep. I closed my eyes, a blissful emotion coming over me that for the first time in years I didn't need a pill, or a line, or the next best, to feel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys liked it! kudos and comments always appreciated :)


	13. theo

The next morning I did my best to hide the astonishment of what had happened, It was barely seven, the sunlight filtering into the room but dim enough that Boris remained asleep as I crawled out of his embrace. Glasses on, I made my way quietly down the stairs to find Popper still in the house from yesterday and trash scattered in the kitchen. He awoke at my presence, barking and jumping about my feet. 

"Hush, you'll wake up Boris." I set down some food to keep him quiet, and finished cleaning the kitchen. Stretching to put away a bowl, I noticed how stiff my neck felt, the aching sensation, like I'd been sleeping in an uncomfortable position the whole night. 

Warm hands wrapped around my waist—a yelp in surprise. "Morning, Potter." Boris's voice was thick with sleep. 

"You can go back to bed, I just didn't want them to come home to a dirty house." 

He held me tighter, making me think that last night was not just a fun, albeit a drunk, one-time thing. Something we would not talk about. "Are they home?" 

"I didn't see their car." Setting the kettle on for him; tea in the morning, strong and sugary. 

"Mmm. Is good, then." He scooted closer—bare chest on my back, light trail of kisses along my shoulder. "Is there anything to eat? I am starving."

"You're always hungry." I turned back to face Boris, putting a hand around his neck, soft black hair curling in my hands, thankful he hardly puts a finger on his hair—unruly and long. His face was kinder; impish, still, shaded eyes, full lips stretching out to yawn, a hint of freckles spanning across his pale cheeks. 

"If you make the toast, I can cook some eggs?" I said, going over to find the toaster and a clean pan. 

" _Hej_!" Boris rushed up to me with my back turned and grabbed at me, holding me tight with one hand and tickling me with the other. 

"S-stop!" I gasped between laughs while he growled, "Did I say you could go? No, no, you must stay here _now_." He continued to tickle my side, just above my ribs, and bit into my shoulder, his teeth resting there, a spark of pain. 

"Ow! Fuck!" I smiled and fought against his grip while silently enjoying the feel of his chapped lips on my skin. 

A door closed from behind us. He spun me around, dumbfounded and peering over his shoulders: Xandra, barefoot and wiping mascara-smudged eyes. 

Fuck. She hardly noticed us—extracting ourselves from each other, glancing frantic about the room—and proceeded to pour some coffee until finally: "Morning boys,"

"Good morning," I managed to choke out, voice shot with nerves. Boris busied himself with the toaster—not realizing it had not been plugged into the outlet, pressing repeatedly with a swear at the dial—while I stood there, too many bodies occupying the same space. 

"H-how was dinner?" I asked, her back to me. 

Xandra yawned, her Chinese tattoo visible in the low hanging, oversized shirt. "Not bad. Expensive, sure. But fun. Hey, Theo," She turned around, looked into my eyes, "Can you get the cream from the fridge? You're closer- _What is that?"_ Her voice rose in pitch. 

My blood froze. "What's what?" I took a step back, bottle of creamer in hand. 

"How did you burn yourself?" Xandra asked with downturned, faded pencil eyebrows. "Looks like you fell asleep with cigarettes all over you."

"What?" Behind me, Boris snickered and it clicked: I kicked the back of his knee so he fell on the floor, laughing hysterically. 

"No smoking my cigarettes! I don't care if you smoke, but leave my packs alone. Both of you!" She waggled a manicured finger at us. Did she really not put two and two together? 

Xandra sighed and shuffled away, mug in hand and mumbling something about how the youth today is going down the drain. When she left, leaving the air shifty yet oddly relaxed, Boris rose from the ashes of the floor and pounced. "Hah! Did she not understand? Thank God!"

"Honestly. How bad is it?" I took out my phone camera to inspect and sure enough: dark hickeys, ovals of purple and dotted red scattered across my neck and jaw; they were obviously not burn marks but Xandra refused to acknowledge them as anything but. 

"Those will go away in few days," Boris said philosophically, chewing on toast. 

"Let's hope so." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words//:
> 
> -Hej: hey


	14. boris

I didn't expect him to be okay with the other night—Theo was not accustomed to change very well, that _quickly_ —yet he continued as if it wasn't a big deal. I had started to tease him about it throughout the week (sneaking up to moan in his ear, he'd blush and shrug me off) to ignore the fact that I had loved every second of it myself. It was weird, a new feeling within myself; but it wasn't. 

In many ways I was at ease with Theo, his prolonged, anxious movements and reminders ("Where are we meeting again?" or "Your dad's okay with us coming in here..right?" He had asked, jittery, after the third or forth time sneaking back into my house to fool around upstairs uninterrupted) along with the subtleties: his hand reaching up to pull an unruly curl of hair away from my face, at night—when I frequently stayed over—his lips at my ear, _goodnight_ , gentle hugs out of nowhere, when you least expect it. 

His affection was wholesome; slowly progressing overtime. I didn't really try to hide my feelings around him, I knew that I had this underlying desire for Theo that was impossible to shake, balking at a date on the calendar you know, day after day, will come: _Was I gay?_

I couldn't lie to myself. Not anymore: drunken nights, grappling hands on each other, clothes strewn in a haphazard heap on the bed, waking up smiley and dazed the next morning. 

School was harder too. Now, after all this time, the pieces began to slowly fall into place, my past life. Old friends snickering as we walked past—no indication that anything was happening between us, a safe distance apart, _public show_ —until realizing that Theo had worn a shirt that exposed the fading hint of a love bite, yellowed and below his ear. I could tell he was nervous, his eyes flickering around the hall, exaggerated movements: _It's alright, Theo. Who gives shit what they think? They have probably never got one, is it._

* * *

Some nights, Theo woke up in a fit of terror, clutching the sheets and crying out loud. Yelling incoherent phrases, _where did she go? no! stop! i'm coming, please, stop running!_

It scared me as well, seeing his eyes brimming with tears, unsteady breathing. (Every time I was there—what if I wasn't? I immediately would draw him close, Popper rising his head from sleep, an anxious whine. 

_"It's alright, Theo. Shhh,"_ I said quietly, stroking his hair, rubbing his bare arms. _"Is only a dream. It's okay."_ He calmed down after a bit of this, wiping his face and mumbling sorry a few times). Of course the incident had affected him, but I was unaware of how deeply his mind was tormented every day, seeing his mother in the slightest of things. His tinnitus, the post-trauma panic attacks—flinching at a door closing, staggered, aggressive paranoia; and alternately, Theo staring at the wall, completely sober, for over an hour in catatonic numb. Most of the time I helped as much as I could, but it worried me at times, this invested. 

* * *

"Boris..c-can you get my meds from the locker?" Theo asked, in the middle of lunch with his hands rigid at his sides, voice choppy and distant. I'd been rereading a lengthy passage of _The Idiot_ in translation and had ignored his request. 

Shakier: " _Boris_?" I looked over the top of my book—faraway eyes, ironclad grip on the table. 

"Are you okay?" I stood and shook his shoulder. I knew this: a certain panic that he experienced only a few times, frozen in place, the emotions spilling over while remaining eerie and calm. 

"I will get." Theo mumbled the combination and shut his eyes tight. I had to forge his dad's signature multiple times in order for Theo to even carry his meds on campus. I scrambled in the digits with sweaty fingers. His locker was a mess—aside from the torn textbooks there was an assortment of trash bags and a large (attacked with duct tape) package, about the size of a book intentionally hidden behind wrappers and paper. 

I found the pills immediately but hovered over the locker, staring at the mystery book. Theo and I had a symbiotic relationship, in some ways: always giving each other money, food, clothes (he looked better in my shirts than I did). So this wasn't any different. I was deeply intrigued, _what was it? Hidden like that?_

I took it anyway. Stashed it in my bag that I forgot to take off during lunch. 

Returning to the table with not much change on his part, tossing him the orange bottle.

"Thanks." I shifted uncomfortably, knowing I probably shouldn't have taken it, whatever it was; the item itself gave off this presence when I looked at it, like it was more important than the dollar bills I'd swipe off the countertop, or the apple from his bag. Much more significant. 


	15. boris

I hid the package in my room—after weeks of never staying, my house was a complete disaster—stuffed in the closet. Theo texted asking to stay the night so I had to open it before walking back over. The duct tape was really fucking glued on there, smelling of burnt adhesive and chemicals. 

It took two X-Acto knives and a sore arm to get the side pried open, like cracking into a time capsule: layer after layer of duct tape, two sets of newsprint, a dust towel—the trickle of smells, dark interior showcasing a thin, white canvas looking item that appeared as though it had remained untouched for years. 

_The fuck?_ With careful hands, holding it by the cloth, I slid the canvas out. It was a painting, taking me about five seconds to fully comprehend the immense weight of what it _actually was._

_The Goldfinch, 1654, Carel_ _Fabritius._

The fragments fell into place, how the painting fit into Theo's story slamming into me—the bombing, the deaths, but why steal it?

"Teaching you to steal chocolates and steak from citizen grocery store and here you go, you take world famous work of art." 

I quickly put the painting back into its makeshift case, adding more tape to make it look less fucked. On a separate, unrelated wavelength, I was partially attracted to the idea of Theo getting away with stealing a painting worth millions. 

"Shit." What was I going to do? It was a Friday, giving me enough time to make a replacement, or put the thing back. But could I? 

Panicked, I found an old Civic's book from last year and wrapped it in an old paper and tape, hoping the forgery could pass off at the original. The act of stealing was instinctual, impersonal. Knowing you had something that was not meant for you sent a different type of high shimmering in your veins. 

_Thief_ ; the word rang in my head. Stealing from the boy you might just love, the boy who has lost everything. It was irrevocably wrong. A type of wound that would not scar, not for Theo, it would fester into _trust issues_ and _isolation._

_Fuck, Boris._ I let out a shaky breath and put the painting—fake and real—into the depths of my closet and rushed out of the house as fast as possible. The night air welcomed me, whispering accusations. 

Monday. I'll give Theo the painting then. 

* * *

Later that night with a beer in hand, Theo's head resting on my chest. I set the bottle down on the nightstand and pulled him up to kiss his face. Ever since that first night a month ago, we were much more relaxed, no longer breathless and worried. His lips were dry, tasting like the tea he started drinking habitually at night—"Chamomile, helps me sleep." 

"Are you drunk?" He slurred. 

"A little. Why? You don't sound good either, _мой сладкий_." I laughed at his sluggish hands on my bare stomach. 

"Oh. Cause, I didn't wanna do anything..not sober." Theo explained with a serious expression that made me burst out laughing. 

"Hah! Silly boy, is not only time we are drunk. Are you always finding ways? Little excuses?" I was in a good mood, with no point in getting annoyed at Theo's constant asking me to stop and accusations of me going too far. The more I thought about the act itself, it made my heart beat faster and already I was imagining it—definitively making me see that I was _absolutely manifesting feelings for my best friend._

The mood had died; Theo kissing my chest one more time and then returned to my side, head on my shoulder. His glasses were still on, poking into my ribs. Popchyk, seeing that we were done, scurried to Theo's side and curled into a shadowy blob. 

" _Dobranoc_ , Potter." I took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand, the sheets pulled low, and tried to sleep. But I couldn't stop troubling over the painting, my feelings, fuck, even if my dad was going to be home tomorrow—would he find it? What would he do if he knew about Theo? He had briefly mentioned at a scattered dinner one night that he—we—had to move for work, but of course I wasn't going to go. There was no way. Not without Theo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words//:
> 
> -мой сладкий: my sweet  
> -Dobranoc: goodnight


	16. theo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw//: brief wound description, blood

How was I to stop this? I knew in the back of my head I was dreaming; the desert sky was too ominous and the faces around me haloed in stage light. But the thread of consciousness was evident: _lies._

I was standing in the middle of the abandoned playground Boris and I frequented (whether to drink ourselves into oblivion on the rusted swing set, or—sometimes—climb up into the green plastic slide and make out until our clothes were brimming in static). The playground had become our safe haven, since the complex had essentially given up on finishing it, opening it to the public. It was our meeting spot outside of school. (My mother and I, holding her hand when I let her, me waiting for her at the all-too-familiar park bench back in New York that she favored. Our rendezvous point. The memory of this felt like it had never happened, for the last year struggling to block New York as well as I could but it sprung up from my dense cloud of repression quite frequently). 

There he was, brooding by one of the swing's chipped metal poles sticking out from the wood chips, black hair blowing in ringlets with the wind and his eyes narrowed and watchful. 

I reached for him, he scowled and turned away.

"What?" I asked, quickening my pace towards Boris, but he waved a hand, cutting at the air: go away, cut it out. 

"Boris, you're not making any sense-" There she was. Kotku, Kaylee what's-her-name, back from the dead. 

Her hair was the same as before she'd died—flat black with streaks of badly bleached orange—the same, charcoal penciled eyes, impossible stare in my direction. I'd never liked Kotku for a number of reasons, obvious ones, her whiny way of irritating those around her—except for Boris, who had seemed to put up with her bullshit pretty well before. 

She swung her scrawny little hips out, strutting towards Boris in a _try and stop me_ manner. It was infuriating, yes, I was dreaming but somewhere here held a truth: _this is how it was, how it would have been if not for you._ The way that she clung onto Boris's waist sent me reeling, his eyes were not quite focused on her and it brought me back to six months prior and how Boris acted around Kotku. Outwardly affectionate, surface level, _sure yeah fine I love you too Kotyku._

Their kiss made a mountain of nausea burn at the base of my throat with nothing I could do to stop it. I was motionless, unwilling. A flash of his tongue in the sunlight. 

Fuck. I spun around on my heels and went the other way, away from it all, fighting the urge to break down and confess right there that I'd lied and really Boris I've loved you since I met you last spring. But was I willing to speak? Dream or not?

_"Wait! Potter, I'm sorry!"_ Boris called after me, his accent thick with emotion. The footfall of his jungle boots clashing in my ears with a resolute _thump_. 

I stopped mid stride, facing him. Boris stood, sick and stiff: a mirror image of the night of the accident. A deep gash curved across his scalp, thick with blood and dripping along the sides of his hair, matted with it. His face was littered in glass cuts and ugly scrapes, with his clothes covering the rest of what my imagination had made. The only familiar thing about this Boris were his eyes—a deep black, chocolate brown in the sun, set in woeful lashes, the setting sky reflecting off all sorts of earth tones not normally exposed in his eyes. Beauty amidst the terror of his face. 

_"I am sorry,"_ he says again, wiping his wet cheeks of blood and tears. _"But I must go."_

"What do you mean?" I took a step closer and Boris convulsed, the wound on his face gushing blood across the asphalt, scarlet mess of skin surrounded by blobs of plasma. _He was dying._

I forgot about the dream and rushed to him. 

Boris groaned and held his abdomen, his hands pulling away from the fabric with a wet squelching sound, soaked in blood. Holding himself together. 

"Oh, god." I knelt down beside him and put a hand against his face but he wailed in pain and forcefully pushed me away. 

_"Przestań!_ Stop!" He cried, resulting in more fluid to leak out of him. No matter what I did, any movements made him writhe in agony. I was completely helpless. 

_"I'm sorry, I should have told you, I'm sorry."_ I closed my eyes and prayed to wake up, becoming more afraid at how real the dream was beginning to look. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words//:
> 
> -przestań: stop it


	17. theo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>excruciatingly short<<

"I'm sorry!" Gasping, new surroundings. I flung up out of bed with the side of my face sticky with sweat. A rustle next to me. 

"Theo? Are you alright?" I steadied by breathing and looked around—no asphalt covered in gore, no Kotku, and Boris definitely alive and well by my side. An incense candle flickered at the desk, burning the last of its wax and leaving the air smelling of Boris's room: cedarwood and clary sage ("It will calm you down, promise." He had told me, depositing a few sticks by the desk one day). 

"Oh, god." I sighed in relief and fluttered back down onto my damp pillow, Boris half-propped up and visible in the dark. "Nightmare?" he said, stroking the side of my face in concern. "I feel like this is third one this week, Potter. Not good."

"I know, I just can't control it." I held onto his forearm while he continued to pet my head—it was quite comforting, reminding me of a distant childhood. 

"Hush, just go back to sleep. No need to worry. Whatever it is, gone now." I was soothed by the rhythmic brush of his fingers against my temple and fell asleep shortly after. 


	18. boris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (okay guys i'm trying to write this and I'm slowly realizing it gets worse as the chapters progress, i'm used to writing more sophisticated than this so I apologize for that ahaha) ((unless you like it! then hooray to you))

After rummaging through Theo's fridge Saturday morning—he'd left surprisingly early, with no note—I found the urge to make cereal; quite the delicacy for me, living off mostly drugs and alcohol, the occasional candy bar when I had pocket change. 

The painting was safely hidden in my closet, under dirty laundry and an old backpack from years ago. But the idea of it made my skin crawl constantly. I had to give it back. And I was—Monday. He'll notice it's missing and I was going to come clean; maybe on more things than one. 

I went for a second bowl when I heard a door open. 

"Oh. Boris?" Theo's dad shuffling in the kitchen with a half-opened bathrobe and loafers. Much too hot to wear. "Morning, then. How are ya kid?" 

I choked on a piece of the cereal trying to get the words out. I hardly talked to Larry, not out of disrespect but more so because Theo was deeply embarrassed at his one living parent and tried to avoid him as much as possible—which was basically all the time. 

"G-good. And yourself?" I decided to skip the second bowl of cereal, no use in expressing my greedy tendencies around my sort-of boyfriend's dad. 

That made me stop. Was there really a word for Theo and I? It was more stifling nights, cuddled together in bed with the Nevada winds blowing all around us, telling our story. Or breezy, drunken smiles while our noses were pressed close, sweet nothings.

"Pretty well. Say, how're things at home?" He asked me while poring over an astrology resources book.

Things at home? I was getting tired of the small talk but was certain that my dad had begun packing his stuff to move—minus my room, locked, hopping out the window and sliding off the shingled roof to get to Theo's so he couldn't hear me creep downstairs.

"I think we are doing fine. Yes?" I sloshed some water in the bowl before setting it in the sink; heading towards Theo's room when his dad stopped me, his lint-fuzzed loafer poking out from under the table in my path. 

'If I asked a serious question, would you answer me truthfully Boris?" He said, stone faced and his eyes—so much like Theo's—burning into my skull. 

"Of course, Mr. P-Potter." 

He sighed, staring disconnected into a mug of steaming coffee. "Is there..something going on between you and my son? Now, I've known that Theo was," a slight grimace, "Gay. But, listen now, you two are spending a lot of time together...Any reason for that?" 

I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. He waited for an answer—slumped—while I stared at the wafts of steam rising from the coffee cup. 

"Well, er, you would like truth? Okay. Well, technically, yes, I am with Theo. _We are together._ " Did I sound as confident as I felt? Saying it out loud gave it a sense of finality that made me at ease. No shame in hiding. 

His dad scrunched his eyes tight. "So, you're.."

"Gay." An uneasy pause. 

"Yeah, that." It reminded me of how my father acted the first night with Theo, but with no screaming and swearing. Larry was undoubtedly homophobic, like my father—a common occurrence, unfortunately. 

"Okay. Well." He clapped his hands together. "Thanks for letting me, uh, know. Just don't um, well, actually I _don't_ want to know. I'll be here in the kitchen if you need anything, alright kid?" The look on his face was that of extreme discomfort. He put a hand at the small of my back and gestured for me to go back to his room: _please, get out of my sight, you defilement of this earth._

I slapped him on the shoulder and smiled. Who gives a fuck? "Have good morning!" He flinched and nodded absently, probably wondering who allowed the crazy Russian kid into his house. I think maybe I had a reason or two to dislike Theo's dad now, dad up with his apparent aversion when five minutes ago he was smiling and inviting. 

I retreated to Theo's room-slowly accumulating things of mine—and collapsed on our bed, mentally exhausted. 


	19. boris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this one is super short so eeee)

* * *

We sat in his bed eating chocolate he'd got for me—Theo returning hours after I'd passed out, presenting me with a bag containing (" _Purchased, I'm not a thief like you,"_ His winning smile) dark chocolate and other snack foods he knew I liked. Well, I ate most of it since he kept feeding me pieces of his half, which I obliged to nibble from his fingers. I lit a cigarette and let the smoke drift in a sideways curtain through the window before passing it over to him.

"Was there something you were going to tell me?" Theo asked with chocolate in his mouth. His cheeks were bright and he seemed overall pretty happy—for more reasons than one, I could assume. (When he had gotten home I attacked him in a half-awake fervor; he had melted under my touch, hands clenching the sheets, obviously I'd done something right). 

"Oh. Well I may or may not have told your father—he asked me, really—that you are my boyfriend. Right?" Theo winced at this, looking up at me in horror. 

"You did _what?_ " 

"He asked me! He sat me down and gave me this disgust face and asked if you and I are together. I had to tell the truth, Potter!" I said quickly when I saw Theo sigh with content eyes and wipe his face. 

"Look. I am sorry. But is it not better to not keep secrets? 'Truth in dark?'" 

"It's 'keep in the dark', Boris."

"Whatever! You know what I mean."

"You're my boyfriend?" Theo said abruptly, on a completely different note. 

"What? This is the problem? You worry over this?" I grabbed his free hand and squeezed it tight. "Is it not obvious? It took some time for me to see it myself, yes, but now I know. It is all very new to me. That is, if you would want something like that at all." I gave him a dramatic pout, tucking in my chin and looking up with doe eyes. 

"Of course I want to be with you. It's just gonna suck around my dad." He kissed me lightly on the cheek and wrapped his arms around my middle. 

"We can always piss them off." I said over his hair. He smacked my arm. 

I laughed and pulled him down on the bed, stubbing out the cigarette. "No! Am serious Potter! Think of how funny it would be. _Where are you getting cigarettes?"_ I used a snobbish, gravelly voice for the last sentence, my Xandra impersonation. Theo erupted in a laughing fit at this, picturing yet another Xandra scenario. 

"I guess you're right. And..tonight was really..good, by the way." Theo said, his voice weak and reminiscent of when my hands were toying down the waistband of his pants an hour prior. With his nervous skittering _around_ sex, there were other things to do than just _that_. I pinched his arm. " _глупый мальчик,_ I knew you would like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words//:
> 
> -глупый мальчик: silly boy


	20. boris

I was at my house—mostly guilty and deciding maybe just giving Theo the painting today—packing away some stuff, glad that most of my shit all fit into a suitcase. 

My dad had abandoned the house without a word, all but leaving me a spare key on the marble counter. We'd parted on bad terms after I'd come out as gay. It followed: the veins in his neck bulging in anger and hitting me across the spine with a belt, exasperated, shouting in disappointed Russian. Now, shirtless and dressing the wound (nasty slash marks slung across my back, like that of a martyred Jesus) with some gauze, I knew Theo was going to worry over it. He always cried over the bruises and cuts my father left on me, rushing to the bathroom for the first-aid kit the second I'd walk through his bedroom door with one. I slipped my shirt back on carefully and finished packing. 

Theo and I had found an old board up house on his street—usually supplied with food from the other squatters that inhabited it at times—and the estate's board of directions or the HOA or whatever the shit didn't see it's discarded construction plans as much of a concern. A perfect place to crash for a few weeks until I could find my grounding. 

_The Goldfinch_ and its decoy called to me from the barren closet, after I'd pulled the sliding door off the track and laid it against the wall free of flags and fabric; whispering to come pick it up, give it the most minute amount of attention it desperately deserved. After a glance around (who else would see?) I stuck the painting into my backpack, careful not to scrape it against my other stuff inside. Theo would be really upset, hate me even; but I knew it was wrong of me and I had to repay him in some way. 

With my suitcases left outside outside my barren house—no one for miles, who's to steal? (and who's to know if I was dead? Check up on me?)—I headed down the dusty road to his house with a heavy heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lovelies! sorry this one is so short it's kind of a interlude chapter if ya get me :) I hope you are all liking the storyline! it's cheesy (we love cheese!) and cliche (but what fanfiction isn't, folks?) but stay tuned as I *attempt* to wrap this up!! kudos and comments are always appreciated <3


	21. boris

His door was unlocked, not a normal occurrence. The car was in the lot as well, the shiny Lexus that stood out against the plain rows of houses. I slowly stepped inside, not telling Theo I was planning on showing up today anyway, it being a Sunday—football games with his dad. 

Voices echoed from the living room, an unpleasant rise in tone. 

"So you're saying..I can't take out any of the money?" Theo's soft voice. A muffled phone call, with Larry on the other end of the room listening intently on the second receiver. The caller's response, distorted. But the look of complete terror on his dad's face at the caller made me shiver. His expression looked like that of a tortured animal. 

"No. I did not know that..Yes, thank you." Theo said, followed by the click of a phone being set back into place. 

"You listen here..I needed this!"—A hand crashing across paper and the toppling of objects—"I'm in a really tight spot, oh fuck! You little shit and your goddamned mother! Oh, shit! Stop it!"

Hidden in shadow, I saw Larry grasping him by the collar, and with an awful clap of skin he smacked his face. Hard. I knew his dad was a shitty guy—hiding his cocaine from Xandra, late night phone calls I overheard when Theo was asleep, he definitely was in some shit—but the way he slapped Theo sent me into a rage. He stood, trembling with stunned eyes and a tear-streaked face. 

"Hey! Stop that!" I rushed over to his dad, who still was holding onto Theo with both hands. I shoved against him, screaming at him in Polish. Larry's head cracked to the side, confused and spiteful, glaring at me but releasing Theo. 

"Boris!" Theo cried, escaping his dad's grip and staggering over to me, breathless. 

" _Fuck!_ No!" His dad shrieked, stumbling backwards with an agonized wail. He was no longer looking at us but up at the ceiling, tearing at his hair. 

"Let's get you out of here." I grabbed his arm and he followed me to the door, his dad continued shouting and pounding on the mantlepiece of their faux fireplace. 

"What the fuck just happened? Are you okay?" I asked once the front door shut, holding his face and staring at the bright red marks across his cheeks. Theo's eyes were watery, glasses fogged, and looked at me with delayed fear. 

"I-I don't know. He wanted to take money out of m-my mother's fund she'd left for me. But she made s-sure he could never lay a finger on it. But, Boris. He knew me social security number and tried taking my money. Her m-money."

"Fuck. That's terrible. I'm so sorry, Theo. No, shh," He tried to speak but I knew he was still dazed, "Come on, let's take a walk."

He nodded and let me wrap an arm around his waist as we got further and further away from his house and to the playground. 

* * *

We'd sat on the swings for a good while—with Theodore so shaken, he'd allowed me to give him a tab of acid (setting it on his tongue slowly while his eyes were wide, he'd never liked drugs) I'd picked up off some kids I guess I'd known before; all I needed to do was send a text and they would put it in my locker—watching the shapes and sounds flicker into glass kaleidoscopes of black and white. 

"See, you will feel so much better." I told him. 

"It's all so weird. Look at the colors." Theo said, his voice sending sparks of gold exploding across my vision. The setting sun was almost smiling at us, and the creaky chain swings made us laugh, obviously it was all hysterically funny. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like it! comments and kudos are much appreciated :)


	22. boris

We could hardly get up in our state, holding onto each other and stumbling back home.

"Home?" I asked him. 

"I meant my house. You know," Theo said, wiping his eyes for the sixth or seventh time with the drugs wearing off.

"Was a nice movie, right?" I bumped his shoulder and he smiled sadly.

"What is the matter? Are you bummed you've been avoiding my bounty of drugs for so long?" 

"Shut up." Theo shoved me and glowered at the sight of his house on the end of the road.

The backpack was heavy—whether with metaphorical weight or literal—as we stood at his door, confused at the rows of cars lined in our empty street. All the lights were on in the house too; even more peculiar. 

"Wonder what they're up to?" Theo said while turning the lock.

"Hah, maybe a party." But what was inside was even worse than we could have imagined:

Xandra, sitting around a circle of older women all holding onto her and murmuring words of what seemed like solace. Two bottles of wine lay on the coffee table along with a scattering of half empty glasses. 

"Hey..Is dad home?" Theo approached them. The woman all turned their heads to stare inquisitively at us, either in caution or sympathy. Xandra sniffed loudly and stared at Theo, drunken confusion. "Your father got into a car accident, Theo. His blood alcohol was .39." She wiped a watery mascara tear. _Damn_. Theo had briefly mentioned to me in a hushed whisper that his dad was a "recovering" alcoholic—much like mine.

Theo didn't seem to comprehend. "Okay, so when is he coming back?"

Xandra stood—still in her overall work uniform—and spoke in a louder, gruff voice. "Don't you understand? He's dead. Your father is dead. Drove off into the desert..like, _like..he was going to leave!"_ She sobbed and choked on the last few words; her friends shushed her and brought her back down onto the sofa with comforting hands. 

And Theodore, bless his poor, half-drugged soul, began to laugh: a short, staccato giggle that I started to follow on as well because I was pretty fucked myself. 

"What is wrong with you?!" Xandra thundered, jumping off the couch in a grieved frenzy to come after Theo—only making his laughs increase as he dashed into the kitchen. "Aren't you upset? Your own father is dead and gone...you can't even cry about it?"

While I hung behind them all Theo stopped laughing, struggling to gain composure as she railed him. 

I sat on the first step of the carpeted staircase and waited for him to join me. The other women all started talking to Xandra and discuss things like finances and any will he may have left. 

"Fuck." Theo said at the lampshade, staring at the dark ringed wine glass on the table.

"Yeah."

* * *

It was getting late; Xandra's friends had all left but one younger woman with long brown hair and a snotty voice. I was pretty sure she was trying to hit on me, which was deeply funny. 

"She just fell asleep. Do you want me to stay?" She asked me instead of Theo with a serious, adult frown. 

"I think is okay." I tell her while she kept staring. 

"Where are you from? Your accent is like..British meets Transylvania." 

Theo shot me a look and I barked out a laugh. " _Transylvania?_ Do you want me to bite you?" I bared my teeth, making Theo double over. Maybe this lady was drunk but I swore she started to lean closer towards me in a _c'mon, let's kiss_ motion; Theo from behind her suppressed a chuckle with a snort loud enough that she spun around: "Are you _okay?"_ Accusing tone—fucking hilarious. I smirked at her back (thumb jutting behind my shoulder: get her outta here!) until she turned back around in time for me to change my posture; slouched, concerned, nodding. 

"Uh, well?" Theo said between drunken laughs, "I think it's time for you to go." She glared at him one last time before taking her final sip of wine, collecting her shit and leaving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this in a fat minute but I'm trying to wrap this up eheheh


	23. boris

When the door shut, we looked at each other in a halted pause: _what now?_

"Come on," He led me to Xandra's unlocked room where she lay on the unmade bed with her purse's contents dumped out on the sheets—Theo's doing. 

"What're you doing Potter?" I whispered, panicked, the plans were coming undone. 

"Looking for money. Chips. I don't know. I need to go before they start showing up." 

_What? Leave?_ "Going? What are you going on about?" I crossed my arms. 

He sighed into Xandra's jewelry box, inspecting a pair of emerald earrings, fat green droplets. "I'm a _minor_ , Boris. And we've got to go before CPS or Social Services or whatever the fuck gets notified and try and take me. Are you packed? I think there's enough money here—plus yours—for two tickets." He was rambling, swaying about the room looking for nothing in particular. 

"Where are we going?" I asked yet again, taking his arm to stop him from shaking. 

He didn't respond so I pulled us out into the hallway, shushing him. "It's okay. No one's gonna take you away."

"Yes they are! They've done it before Boris and they can now! I have to go back to New York." Theo said with an exasperated sigh. 

_"Right now?"_ It was all tumbling down now; either give him the painting or don't. 

"Yes. Go get your things. Where's Popper?" He dismissed me and began searching for the dog. 

I stood still, astounded. "My things? Potter, I do not think leaving right this minute is a good idea." But he didn't listen, he was back with Popchyk in one arm—a duffel and backpack hung on his elbow—and on the phone with the other. 

"Okay. I've got a cab coming. Where's your stuff? Boris?" He finally stopped in his anxious running-and-panicky mode to stare at me under the yellow hallway light. The immensity of the situation dawning. 

"Wait! Stop. Let us think for a second. Where are we going to stay? Here, we have food. Warmth. _Each other."_

"We can find those things in New York. Just come with me! You've got to!" We were outside now, standing around looking at anything but each other. A heavy exhale. 

"Shit." Theo muttered with startled eyes. "I f-forgot something at school! We need to see if w-we can go."

My blood ran cold: the bird. "Now? What is it that you could have possibly left? Not good idea," Better to play dumb. 

"I just—oh fuck. It's not gonna work!" Tears ran down his flushed face, "I have to go! Are you coming?" Theo in his scared voice, a mood he filtered to when things were moving too fast for his controlled scope. In the street, his dusty sweater and glasses were streaked in light, the only lamp lit on the whole block. 

"There's something I have to say." I started, clenching my backpack straps. 

"What? No, Boris, we need to go to school—what could possibly be so important now? We've got-"

_"I have it!_ I'm so sorry Theo I have the painting! I found it the day you needed those meds—silly of me and I am very very sorry—but please, love, forgive me! You know I am a thief to the core. But is safe here," I got it all out in a shaky breath, patting my bag. Theo stood still, blinking profusely. 

"You've got the...painting? It's okay?" Unwavering stare. Not even bothering to ask how he came about it himself. I knew. The relief was almost palpable. 

I nodded, taking a cautious step closer. "It is with us. Look at us, stealing. Partners in crime, no?" Another breath, easy laughter. 

"Oh, god." He said, reassured and fiddling with his glasses, not really looking at me anymore. But he started to babble on about how great New York is (the trust fund, the spot where all the Russians supposedly where—"really you're going to love it, Boris") as I noticed the beam of headlights turning on the street: the cab. 

"Potter. I think, I love you." I took his chin and kissed him deeply, a different one, releasing all of the things that weightless words couldn't say: that I loved him, his soft kisses, his breakdowns, his grief, his drunken smiles. _Him._

"I-I love you too," Theo said as soon as our lips brushed apart, blushing like mad. 

"I think I already knew that," I hugged him tight, ignoring the driver's curious glance our way. 

"You're coming, right?" Theo said. I released him and gave the dog a little peck on his nose for good measure. 

"Of course." I rapped the side of his temple with my knuckles: _idiot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!!! (Never am I ever. Under any circumstances. WRITING A 23 CHAPTER FIC. AGAIN!!). I nearly died folks, it was a glorious dumpster fire. But! If you enjoyed it, then I am happy :) I see now it was a slow descent into making no sense as I finished it (the plot line! the gaps! me realizing halfway through it's just gonna be a fix-it!) but oh well!! <3 Kudos and comments on this mess are very appreciated!


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